“Come in here an’ we’ll look at it,” and Jack half-dragged him through the open door, which he closed and barred. “That’ll keep th’ varmint from takin’ another shot at us,” he said. “Now let’s see the cheek.”
But not even Jack’s anxiety could make of the wound more than a scratch. The bullet had cut the skin from the left cheek for nearly an inch, and a little cold water, which Jack found in a bucket in the house, soon stopped the bleeding.
“Who could it have been?” asked Allan, at last.
“Y’ don’t need t’ ask that, I hope,” cried Jack. “It was Dan Nolan!”
“Well, he didn’t hurt me much,” said Allan, with a laugh. “He doesn’t seem to have very good luck.”
“No,” said Jack; “but if that bullet had been an inch further to th’ right, you wouldn’t be a-settin’ laughin’ there,” and a little shudder ran through him as he thought of it, and he clinched his hands as he imagined what his vengeance would have been.
“Do you suppose Nolan lives here?” asked Allan, looking curiously around the room.
“No,” said Jack; “they’s one o’ th’ Waymores lives here, but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he was in cahoots with Nolan. These people’re just as much vagabonds as them that go trampin’ about th’ country.”
Allan looked again about the squalid room, and turned a little sick at the thought of living in the midst of such filth and wretchedness.
“Come, let’s get out of here,” he said. “I want some fresh air. This is enough to turn one’s stomach.”